PASSION-FLOWER. 137 



God dwelleth not in temples raised 



By work of human hands ; 

 Yet shrines august, by men revered, 



Are found in Christian lands. 



And may not e'en a simple flower 



Proclaim his glorious praise. 

 Whose fiat only had the power 



Its form from earth to raise? 



Then freely let the blossoms ope, 



Its beauties to recall, 

 A scene which bids the humble hope 



In him who died for all. 



The same. — dr. edmfnd cartwright. 



Yon mystic flower, with gold and azure bright, 

 Whose stem luxuriant speaks a vigorous root, 

 Unfolds her blossoms to the morn's salute, 

 That close and die in the embrace of night. 

 No luscious fruits the cheated taste invite — 

 Her short-lived blossoms, ere they lead to fruit, 

 Demand a genial clime, and suns that shoot 

 Their rays direct, with undiminish'd light. 

 Thus HOPE, the passion-flower of human life, 

 Whose wild luxuriance mocks the pruner's knife, 

 Profuse in promise makes a like display 

 Of evanescent blooms — that last a day ; 

 To cheer the mental eye no more is given : 

 The FRUIT is only to be found — in heaven. 



